


skin-deep

by asynchrony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Psychosis, and alcohol naturally, briefly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynchrony/pseuds/asynchrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras hates his soulmate tattoo, because it means that the first thing his soulmate does is call him pretentious. It also appears to be in some kind of typewriter font, and that means he really can't be sure if the scruffy barista who's just insulted his peppermint mocha is really his soulmate. He hopes not.</p>
<p>Scruffy Barista's handwriting looks nothing like that, at least.</p>
<p>Based on the "your soulmate has a tattoo of the first thing you say to them" thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	skin-deep

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr drabble, based on this post: http://barricadesarise.tumblr.com/post/85327865271/no-but-what-if-a-soulmate-tattoos-au-is-also-a
> 
> The relevant bit is this: "barista!R is incredibly embarrassed to have “I’ll have a venti peppermint mocha with no whipped cream and an extra espresso shot, please” in a pretty cursive font down his left forearm, and E just has “That so pretentious— I mean, coming right up, man” in tiny typewriter font letters on the inside of his right wrist "

See, the thing is, Grantaire doesn’t actually know what his soulmate tattoo says. It came in late, long after he’d made his peace with not having one (kids are cruel, but kids don’t need to be cruel to crazy artist boys who isolate themselves from the rest of their peers with sarcasm and the perpetual smell of turpentine; they’re bright enough to fill in the askance looks with bitterness and insecurities all their own). When he felt the prickling on his skin he was seventeen and drinking to numb the terror after a particularly bad psychotic episode, and his first thought was “shit, I thought it was over”. Then he’d seen that the black forming on his forearm wasn’t ants after all, but ink, but was far too drunk to read it.

Except that it wasn’t any easier to read in the morning. Who the hell still writes in that sort of fucking ridiculous cursive, anyway? (Who the hell writes on anything but paperwork? Grantaire’s an artist, he uses writing implements for a living, and he still mostly does his text in digital overlays. Even the cafe he works at has switched to electronic forms for basically everything.)

He’s not sure why he’s thinking about this again now, except that the man in the red coat who’s just walked in is _gorgeous_ , and for some reason every time Grantaire glances at him, pursing his lips as he considers the menu for a ridiculously long time, he feels funny. Surely this man can’t be his soulmate - he’d never deserve to be afflicted with somebody like Grantaire. 

And then the handsome blond steps up and makes that _incredibly pretentious_ order, and he’s startled enough he says that out loud, and oh god he’s been rude to the one customer he’d feel bad about upsetting. The man stumbles back a few steps, face paling, but composes himself quickly. He sweeps a critical eye over Grantaire, grimacing. 

"I’ll have that to go, please."

"Sure. Uh. What’s your name?"

"Enjolras."

He fumbles to write that on the cup, handwriting even sloppier than it usually is, and sets about making the drink with so much clatter a couple of customers join Enjolras in making that pinched-unhappy face at him, but it gets done eventually, and Enjolras takes it without another word and turns to go.

He doesn’t leave right away, though. He pauses near the door when he notices one of Grantaire’s multimedia pieces, the ones the manager said he could display for sale, and rubs his thumb over the metal-stamped type attached to the canvas by brads and thread, lingering for a couple of minutes. He turns back to Grantaire and takes an aborted step forward, mouth snapping shut over a half-formed question, then shakes his head tightly and leaves.

The heating’s turned to full blast, but Grantaire suddenly feels cold when Enjolras leaves. _Weird_ , he thinks. He hasn’t had sensory hallucinations since he was fourteen. He turns back to work.


End file.
